


brick by brick

by Humanities_Handbag



Category: Rise of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles (Cartoon 2018)
Genre: Animal Instincts, Big Brothers, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Little Brothers, Nature and Nurture, angst in a shell, brothers being brothers, pizza toppings include despair and hurt and pineapple
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-12
Updated: 2019-03-12
Packaged: 2019-11-15 23:34:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18083105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Humanities_Handbag/pseuds/Humanities_Handbag
Summary: Donnie feared because it was his instinct. Because it was easier. He feared because Nature had given him a soft shell, so he had to be tough and cold. He feared to survive.Fear kept him safe.His brothers argued that love would do that, too. Nature's off switch is hugs and trust and patience in the right doses. And they've got a pharmacies worth ready to prescribe.





	brick by brick

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Donnie begins to fear when he first feels pain.
> 
> Fear keeps you safe. Keeps you protected. And for his species, that's only natural.
> 
> Too bad nature totally sucks. 
> 
> (And so do loofahs)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was supposed to be one chapter until it turned into a monster of a story, so I'm breaking it into parts!
> 
> Enjoy some angst!
> 
> Lots of Donnie and Leon and brotherly feels abound!

**I** t begins when he’s three and Splinter’s son becomes acutely aware that there is a loofah tied around his waist.

Or. Actually. _No_.

It began when he was three and his father's worst fears were apparently realized when Donatello tripped over a can in the sewer and bruised his shell and cried for eleven heartbreaking minutes until Splinter had doled out the appropriate amount of Jupiter Jim bandaids and kisses. It didn’t do much. His son tucked away and moped and wrung his hands nervously, looking at the world through wide, scared eyes.

Splinter remembered feeling helpless.

(And maybe that’s where it began? Then; with the helplessness as a single father, watching his son sink below.)

But that’s cut away when Raphael stepped in. Splinter’s eldest was always good at this sort of thing. Of reaching below and pulling his brothers up. “Hey buddy,” said the larger turtle, dragging his larger hands down Donatello’s shell. Donatello flinched. Raph ignored it. “Did you fall?”

Donatello nodded miserably, wiggling under Raph’s careful hands.  

“Aw man,” said the eldest. “That sucks? You need a hug?”

Donatello did need a hug, but rarely did he ask for them.

(It was a relief to be asked. Raph always knew to ask first with him, and being around him felt a little less claustrophobic than the rest of his life for it.)

So he melted forward into larger arms and, after he’d moved away from his older brother, he was running around the sewer tunnels again like nothing had happened.

But it had happened. Splinter had _seen_ it happen. Seen the flinch, the fear, the wide eyes and pinched brow.

Seen the bruise that showed up later against the mossy green of his son’s shell.

And so Splinter listened to the panic beginning its steady simmer in his gut and, later that same night, snuck into a library and permanently borrowed a book on turtles.

He had thought-

(believed)

(trusted)

(hoped)

-that Donatello’s shell would harden like a drying paper mache project. That he wouldn’t be left behind- a vulnerable outsider from his brothers. But flipping through the book, dragging his hand down the large index in the back, he was proven woefully wrong.

 _Softshell turtles are often recognized for their peculiar long snouts and pancake-flat appearance,_ the book read beneath pictures of turtles sticking curious eyes out of pond muck. _Unlike many other turtles, their shell is soft, flat, and rubbery. The edges of their shells are lined with spiny projections, which give the species its name. The turtles can live up to 50 years, and mature at 8-10 years of age._ He turned the page to the next addition, where the book (mockingly, smugly, patronizingly) pointed out;

_…many spiny softshell turtles do not even reach this stage.*_

The book then listed an absurdly long list of predators who loved dining on softshell turtles before showing a picture of a fox biting through a shell like sponge cake and he slapped the cover down with a mighty _thwap_.

And after that, he got the loofah.

* * *

  
Their first home had been somewhere beneath an industrial-sized Bed, Bath, and Beyond, and he father had found the bright orange shower accessory and had used the string to tie the thing around his second eldests waist.

His hope was that it would protect him. And maybe, beyond that, might settle his son’s ever creeping anxieties around his family.

The result was a turtle who looked and acted little more than a vicious, nervous, puffy, orange flower.

“Don’t want!” complained the Angry Flower, who spoke in little more than short, sharp sentences, glaring at everything and anything that moved. Splinter always wondered if there’d be a day where his child wouldn’t stop talking. He hoped there might be. “Dumb! Stupid!”

“Safe,” said Splinter, patting the new protector.

Donatello snarled. The puff on his back shivered. “Hate! Hate this! Hate you!” and then went off to plant himself by a pile of twisted metal parts he’d collected. From afar Leo saw him and laughed.

“You look weird,” he said, pointing with a snort. “Like a flower!” Donnie threw a bundle of wires at his head. Raph told them both to _knock if off before I make you_. Things settled after that. A little.

Splinter breathed deep and sighed long and loud. It would be a few long days before Donnie would stop complaining. Stop mumbling _hate, hate, hate_ under his breath enough times to sting.

He’d read the book again later and find the passage he’d miss under masses of pictures of natural habitats and enemies.

_… softshell turtles are known for being extremely aggressive and will snap or scratch at anything within reach with their sharp jaws and claws if they are handled or feel threatened.**_

He watched his most vulnerable son the next day, loofah stuck to his back. Watched him glare and raise his nose in the air.

“Purple,” he said, by way of a greeting.

“Hate you,” snapped Donatello in reply, stomping away.

* * *

  
The words stick with Splinter, and they burn and ache and twist horribly.

_… softshell turtles are known for being extremely aggressive if they feel threatened._

They can’t fight biology or instinct. He knows that.

But it hurts.

His son is afraid of them. Afraid enough to never settle or trust.

He watches him constantly. The way his shoulders square. The way his back faces the wall and his hands clench before a hug or touch.

His son is afraid of him. Of _them_. And Splinter is at a loss for what to do.

* * *

Later Splinter decides that, perhaps, it began when Donatello’s instincts learned to fit into a body size too large for a turtle of his species.

Yes. Splinter would say _that_ was when it began.

When his son relearned fear.

.

.

.  
  
Donatello would argue that it began when the first tendrils began to lace in his belly.

When his lungs turned black and his heart sped faster.

When the world was too big and he couldn’t find a place inside it.

When he hurt and others didn’t.

.

.

.

(When he wished that they could.)

* * *

Donatello was five, and he wasn’t allowed to play Jupiter Jim with his brothers.

He’s not wearing a loofah anymore (he felt like he graduated from Flower to Turtle, thank _goodness_ ), but he walks through life with an anxiety that doesn’t leave, and that keeps him safe. So he doesn’t understand why his father won’t let him take part in the tussles and wrestles. He was careful! He used his fear as a weapon; a fortress. He could take care of himself.  

So why didn’t they let him?

It was so _righteously_ unfair, especially since he was the best at the math and science bits and he could recite the entire theme song by heart (his brothers always had trouble at the chorus) and his dance moves were unrivaled for musically inclined martian battles.

Except that most of those battles end in wrestling and kicking and one or two sneaky sweeps of the leg, and whenever Donnie was inclined to jump in, his father somehow materializes from his chair to pull him away.

“Don’t be so quick, Purple,” says his father.

Donatello squinted up at the rat, twisting his mouth into a scowl. “But I want to.”

Donatello had, as his father predicted, talked more and more the older he’d grown. But his words had never metamorphosed away from their acidic sharpness. His softest son was all angles.

“And I want to fly,” said his father, patting the soft, leathery shell on his back. “We all have limitations. Yes?”

Donatello huffed.

Splinter tried his best to delegate (and honestly- with three boys as a single parent, he was still shocked and appalled over not yet winning the Nobel Peace Prize). “I’m sure your brothers have a much less…” he looked up at the scuffle going on between Raphael and Michelangelo, “ _dangerous_ role for you. Boys! Anything less _punchy_ Purple can do?”

“We need a narrator,” Leonardo piped up from his place to the side. He’d been the narrator for the last two games, and the prospect of finally giving up the least coveted role had him jumping to attention. “Or he can help with costumes.”

“Yeah!” Mikey popped his head up from between the headlock Raph had him in. He had a tinfoil hat smushed onto his head. “Or we need a ref!”

Donnie sighed and crossed his arms, but sullenly agreed.

He’d (reluctantly) play the next three games as the narrator.

“Come on!” Raphael urged him on. He was playing Jupiter Jim that time around. The tin foil hat looked like a thimble on his huge head. “Add some more emotion!”

“You overestimate my emotional output,” he snipped. His vocabulary had also grown over the years. _And so has your head_ , his father was apt to say with a rap to his forehead. _Careful, or that ego will pop, my son_. Which was all jealousy. Clearly. “And if you’re not going to stick to the script, I won’t give you a dazzling performance, either.”

“You’re allowed to improvise, you know,” Leonardo pointed out from where he was hanging off a pipe in the background playing the part of the Martian King, getting ready to strike. “That’s, like… allowed.”

Donatello scoffed.

But after another game, he was beginning to feel the boredom creep up. _And_ the resentment. That one was a little more sticky and terrible.

The scene they were acting out this time was one of his favorites, and he knew it by heart. Where Jupiter Jim took down the entire Martian empire with only his knowledge of the periodic table and some leftover cooled thermite.

And Michelangelo, who’d been christened the sidekick, was doing it _wrong_.

“No,” said Donatello from the side, giving his foot a dramatic _stomp_. “He can’t handle the thermite like that! His arm would blow off!”

Michelangelo didn’t listen.

“And Jupiter Jim wouldn’t _attack like that_ ,” said Donnie, waving a hand at Raphael who’d picked up one of their plastic whiffle bats and was waving it around like a laser gun. He also didn’t listen.

He wasn’t even going to bother with Leonardo, swinging around, ready to land a dropkick on the eldest.

Which was _not_ what the Martian King would have done. At all.

So Donatello jumped in.

It took exactly two seconds for the ball to drop.

He moved in at the same moment that Leonardo struck Raphael’s shoulder with his foot. Michelangelo moved forward to tackle Raphael, who slipped. And his slip backward had Leonardo unable to find the balance to jump away and, with a yelp, he went down.

The largest turtle fell backward, not noticing the purple one skittering from stage left, and bumped into him. Hard.

Donatello fell forward, arms shooting out to catch himself.

Mikey tumbled away.

Raph fell on his side with an _oomph_.

And Leonardo, still falling, finally stuck the landing shell first-

(tumbling)

(twisting)

(collapsing)

-right on top of his brother's back.

There was silence.

Breathing.

Wheezing.

A groan.

And then a sniffle-

-which turned into a choke-

-which turned into a tremble-

-which broke for the torrent of sobs.

“Oh!” Leonardo scrambled off, which only made the shaking brother under him cry harder when the rough shell scraped his more. “ _Oh-!_ ” And then he began to cry, too. His usually stolid face crumpled like thin paper, his hands shaking in terrible little fists. Trying to look calm and failing in a spectacular display of wobbly tears.  “ _I’m sorry,_ ” he choked, stumbling backward to shake Raphael (still dazed) and stab a finger back at Donnie. “I'm _sorry!”_ He said again _._ And then; “ _Raph. Donnie needs- Raph! Donnie needs-!_ ”

Michelangelo had fallen next to Raphael and was up in an instant. And as soon as he saw what had happened the floodgates on the most emotional of the brothers burst.

Raphael was up faster than he’d gone down after that, surrounded by sad noises. Surveying the scene of a panicking Leonardo and a crying Michelangelo and, behind them, his least emotional brother wracked with tears.  

“It’ll be fine,” he said, to no one and everyone at once. “It’ll be fine.”

He was the big brother. He took his position _very_ seriously.

From across the floor Donnie managed to get up enough to scoot across the floor until his shell was against the wall. Protected from his aggressors. And when Leo went closer with Raph in tow, Donatello just pushed himself tighter against the wall.

“ _Leave me alone_ ,” he said, eyes flashing.

Leonardo looked up at his eldest brother. Raphael held out a hand. “I’m getting dad.”

“M’ _sorry_ ,” wobbled Leonardo, reaching towards him. “I’m _sorry_ , Donnie. _I’m really, really sorry!_ ”   

Donatello had no room for mercy it would seem, because he hunched his shoulders and showed his teeth and snarled, “ _Leave me alone! I hate you!_ ”

“ _Donnie_ ,” croaked Leo, squinting through the sting of tears. And that was all he could get through before he dissolved.

* * *

Donatello had wanted his brother to hurt.

Remembered wanting his brother to hurt as much as he did. More than he did. And how dare he _not_ hurt the way he could.

And so he snapped, and he struck, and he found the softness where it counted, and he dug his words in deep and watched his other half crumble.

... It doesn’t feel as good as he wishes it would.

It actually sort of sucks

* * *

They bandaged an ice pack onto his shell and his father changed it every twenty minutes. He’d bruise, but he’d be fine. They gave Donnie free rein of the couch but he lay on the floor, shell pressed to the furniture, clicking mindlessly through channels.

“You’ll have to be more careful,” Splinter warned, wrapping the new ice pack beneath the white swath of bandages.

“It wasn’t my fault. Leo _fell_ on me.” He frowned, wincing at the touch. “Leo was being _dumb_ like always and he fell on me.”

Leonardo stood far, far away, peeking out from behind pillars, biting his lip. Splinter saw him whenever he turned his head, sneaking closer. “Your brother is very worried about you.”

“Don’t care.” He scowled. “Leo only cares about himself.”

From far off, Splinter watched Leo duck his head. “Hmm.” His father rubbed his chin and nodded. “A true shame.”

“He hurt me.”

“Loved ones will do that.”

“He makes me into a narrator,” Donnie growled, tapping fingers on the carpet, “and then he _falls_ on me.” Many more days of playing narrator danced in front of his eyes. It made him more furious.

“Of course. And he did this on purpose.”

“… no?”

“Hmm,” hummed his father again, watching him. Donatello wondered if the older rat could see his frustration painted dark around his small body. “Maybe you should talk to your brother. Maybe find something you can all enjoy.”

Donatello had cried once that day. Those were enough tears for a lifetime, he was sure. His body had different plans as his eyes stubbornly burned hot. “S’not fair.” He wiped at his face with the back of his hand. “I want to do what they do.” Then, softer;  “they’re always a step ahead.”

Splinter drew soft circles on his shell, careful of the bruise. “They’re not, Purple. Or… perhaps they do not mean to be.”

“I have to catch up.”

“Or you must learn to ask them to _wait_.” Donnie glared at the floor. “It is alright to ask for patience, Purple,” pressed Splinter. “They are your brothers. They are there for you.”    

Donnie pressed his head into his arms after that and ignored his father under the mumbles of television.

Splinter pat his shell one more time and wandered off.

* * *

He speaks with Leo privately when his second youngest buries his head into his father's robe and mumbles little apologies while Splinter holds him tight.

“You must understand,” he said, tilting Leonardo’s head up to look him in the eye. They were a little pink and tired and sad. “My son. Your brother. He is… in a very unique situation.”

“He’s smart,” sniffles Leo.

“He is. He is very smart. But he’s also very, very afraid.”

Leo blinked. His brow furrowed. “But- but I didn’t _mean_ -”

“Of course you did not mean to. He is afraid of _all_ of us.”

His son shrank. “Why?”

“Because sometimes we cannot fight nature. Just as yours tells you to be who you are, his tells him to be who he will be.  And he is afraid.” He rubbed his son’s shell again. “It cannot be easy to be vulnerable.”

“What’s that mean?”

“Soft.”

“Like his shell?”

“Like his shell.”

“We’d protect him.”

“Of course you would.”

“He doesn’t have to be afraid. I’d save him. I’m strong. Stronger than Raph, maybe!” Leonardo bulked himself up, puffing out his chest. But he deflated just as fast, remembering why his brother was lying on the floor of the room just steps away. “I don’t want Donnie to be afraid of me. Or Raph or Mikey. Or you.” He looked up, eyes wide. “What do we do?”

Splinter bent down and hugged his son. “We remind him that he does not have to be. And we forgive him when he is.”

It’s all Splinter can say.

Leonardo pressed his head against his father's robe again and fell silent.

* * *

Leonardo would try again. 

It's who he was. Always trying. And yeah, maybe he stood back a little more than most, but he  _tried_. 

Donatello wasn't happy to see him when he snuck over, padding towards him on the balls of his feet. But he wasn't  _unhappy_ to see him either. He was lying on his stomach on the floor, a raggedy old pillow under his head, and an ice pack wound around his shell. He watched Leonardo with a sort of far away skepticism and only a little leftover anger. 

"Donnie?"

Donatello frowned. 

"Donnie, I'm really, really sorry." When Donnie didn't say anything, he took it as an invitation to creep closer. And when he was just over his elder (twin) brother, he bent to his knees and slunk onto his belly. Donatello was a little scrawnier than him, and a little taller, so their faces never matched up when they stood. But lying down, they were face to face. "I didn't mean to hurt you. I  _really_ didn't." 

His older brother hesitated. Swallowed. And then; "I know..." 

Leonardo managed a tiny smile at that. "I'd never hurt you for real on purpose."

"... I know," he said again. His eyes flickered away, face flushing. "And I... don't hate you." 

It was Leonardo's turn to beam and say, "I know." 

Donatello seemed to think a moment before raising an arm, and Leonardo took the invitation without a second thought, snuggling beneath it. 

For the next ticking seconds there was only silence. The TV murmured and the air conditioner hummed and the pipes rattled softly. There was comfort, and calm, and Donnie nearly fell backwards into it. 

Nearly. 

Until Leonardo shifted and opened his eyes. 

For all of Leonardo’s smooth talking, his laissez-faire sweep at life, he’d always given his brothers the barest of chances to see the quiet care he hid away. He was profound, in his own way. And the intelligence hidden behind a crooked smile scared the smartest turtle in the lair. 

"Just so you know,," his brother had whispered, "I'll wait."

Donnie swallowed. "What?"

"I'll wait," Leo repeated evenly. "Or I’ll drag you up with us. Okay? No one’s leaving you behind. Swear." And then he smiled again, and closed his eyes, and snuggled close, and was oblivious to the way his brothers lungs filled with acid. 

Donnie hated his brother for more reasons that day. For the way, years after, the words would sting and cloy and cling and make him so completely vulnerable to trust.

How dare they make him softer.

(How dare they not hurt, too.)

Donatello crushed his eyes tightly closed until little sparks appeared, and he bit his lip hard, and ignored the rolling in his stomach. The familiar bursts of unease down his spine. Leonardo's breathing evened out. Slowed. 

Leo trusted him. 

So why couldn't Donnie do the same?

Closing his eyes tighter, he did his best to ignore the awful questions and finally, to the sound of his brothers constant heartbeat, drifted away. 

* * *

 

Splinter thought that _some_ good things had come out of the whole thing. Because when he went to change bandages, Leonardo was still there, the two of them dozed off. 

 

He changed the bandage carefully, pausing when Donnie nearly woke up before settling again. He wound his arm tighter around his little brother, muttered something, and drifted deeper. Splinter smiled.

It was the harsh reality of a father to know that if anyone was going to break Donatello of Nature's hooks, it would never (could never) be him. Watching him pull Leonardo closer in sleep, breathing deep and calm, he knew. As much as he wanted to guide his son to trust, he could only do so much.

That's what his brothers would have to be for. 

For now, Splinter walked away and left them to sleep. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was totally more of a prologue. 
> 
> Cannot wait until we get into juicier territory. 
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> *http://awesomeocean.com/conservation/endangered-spiny-softshell-turtle/
> 
> **https://animaldiversity.org/accounts/Apalone_ferox/


End file.
